


And I aquiver beneath them both

by okapi



Series: Quiver 'verse [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Feels, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Story: The Adventure of the Naval Treaty, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 11:29:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7889956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes/Mary Watson/Watson. PWP. Set following the canon story "The Adventure of the Naval Treaty."</p>
            </blockquote>





	And I aquiver beneath them both

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sans_patronymic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/gifts).



> Title is from sans_patronymic's [Dream-Lovers](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7769101). Kate Greenaway's _The Language of Flowers_ gives 'confession of love' as the meaning of the moss-rose bud.

Holmes dozes in my arms, limp and sated, if only for the moment. With my eyes closed, I can only hear Mary’s progression of kisses up his bare back. The soft, wet staccato of lips on skin pauses twice and is replaced by sharp inhales.

She once confessed that she adores the scent of him. Of me. Of us.

I open my eyes as she reaches the ridge of his shoulder. She lifts her head and leans closer and our lips meet and hover just above his quiet countenance. Though initially chaste, the kiss lingers and warms, lips choosing to press, rather than retreat. Mouths open. Heads tilt. Tongues taste. And she and I are, once again, passionately feasting on one another.

I confess that I adore kissing my wife and could do so contentedly for the rest of my natural life.

She gives my bristly Cupid’s bow an affectionate peck before pulling away to begin nuzzling the dark hair of Holmes’s nape. She breathes in the fragrance of him at the juncture of shoulder and neck, then sighs.

“He spoke of you during the case,” I whisper.

She raises an eyebrow.

“Not by name, of course. He stopped right in the middle of questioning ol’ Tadpole, walked directly to the open drawing room window which gave onto the garden, lifted the drooping stem of a moss-rose and exclaimed, ‘What a lovely thing this is!’ Then he resumed his inquiries as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.”

“Moss-rose?”

I nod.

“Confession of love,” she says, looking down on him with an expression of such tenderness that I catch my breath and fall in love with her, and him, all over again. Both the catching and the falling, I am discovering, are hazards of this singular life of ours.

Mary turns her head and casts a glance at the flower resting on the bedside table. It is like the one Holmes complimented, a dainty blend of crimson and green.

“They _are_ lovely. That’s why they’re my favourites.”

I smile. “So are you. That’s why you are ours.”

The invitation is plain.

She and I kiss. And kiss again.

It is bliss to love like this, with Holmes nestled between us, openly, frankly, in the way that our hearts and minds and bodies desire. I feel the weight of his nude form and, to a lesser extent hers, on mine.

It is not oppressive or burdensome. It is glorious.

Cases do not always, or even often, end this way, the three of us in a bed barely large enough to accommodate two, but oh, how content am I when they do! To me, it is the perfect dénouement to any plot, problem, or puzzle solved, and when my current bedpartners agree, well, one word, though now repeated, seems the only one serviceable.

Bliss.

Mary and I are still kissing. With each pulse of her mouth against mine, the kiss grows harder, hungrier, hotter, but just as my body stirs anew, she breaks away.

“John.”

The ache in her voice is all that is required to rekindle my lust.

I ease Holmes to one side.

Mary quickly slides into the space provided, stretching the length of her body against mine.

We are still kissing.

Have I mentioned how much I like kissing my wife? I believe I have.

My arm curls around her, drawing her closer to me. My hand rests lightly on her waist, my thumb rubs circles about her hip bone. As my other arm is still partially pinned beneath Holmes, she crawls up my body and takes my head in her hands, smoothing my sex-mussed hair and caressing the sides of my face.

And to think that she might have been heiress to a vast fortune, had it not ended up at the bottom of the Thames, and yet she agreed to share her life with a humble doctor and, on occasion, an eccentric detective.

Extraordinary.

She must read my thought in the awestruck tremble of my lips for when she finally pulls away her gaze holds the same tenderness that she bestowed on Holmes earlier.

“Mary,” I breathe.

She smiles and moves her hands from my face to the pillows behind me, bracing herself as she inches even farther up my body. She is straddling me now, her lower body undulating like lapping waves upon a lakeshore.

I stifle a groan. My prick springs back to life.

How willing, but abject, slave am I to this woman’s passion!

She offers me her neck. I kiss and lick dutifully. Both of my hands are now on her waist, rising and falling with her movements.

She twists. I kiss her shoulders, left and right, as they are offered. Then I look down at her breasts.

The groan will not be stifled this time.

My hands move up her torso, eager to cup those luscious globes.

Her hands rise, too. They draw her long hair up and hold it in a loose bundle on top of her head. Her back arches. She is still rutting gently against me, up and down, up and down, the saddle of my lap.

Her breast bounce. I groan again and take them in my hands. I knead. I squeeze. But mostly, I ogle, devouring her with my eyes long before I ever put a sweet bud in my mouth and suckle.

But when I do begin to taste her, when I do finally flick my tongue against one nub, then the other, she, my beautiful rose, begins to moan in earnest. She weaves her fingers in my hair and guides my head according to her desire.

My prick is fully hard now and throbbing, greedy for the sweetness hidden behind the coarse damp hair that is grinding against it.

I bury my face in her cleavage, nuzzling and licking, but my thoughts, well, my thoughts are savage. They are tossing her on her back, roughly splaying her legs and sinking my hard cock into her without caution or preamble. They are thrusting, fucking…

“My dear.”

At her voice, I shake off the reverie.

“Yes?”

“I believe that we are being watched.”

* * *

One thing is certain: I am the least observant person in the room.

At some point in the previous minutes, Holmes awoke and rolled farther away from us. Most of his face is now buried in pillows, but keen grey eyes are, indeed, as my astute wife asserts, watching.

“Are we?” I ask with mock innocence, looking back at Mary.

She smiles a wicked smile and nods.

My hands fall to her waist.

Her hands follow mine, one resting on my shoulder, then other cupping her own breast. She looks over at Holmes, then feeds me her wet, pebbled nipple, pushing it between my lips.

“John, please. Suckle me.”

I open my mouth at once.

“Oh,” she sighs. “A little harder, John, please.” I oblige. I know that her kneading of her own breast, her brushing of my jaw, tugging my mouth closer, her polite little entreaties for more, are for Holmes’s enjoyment as much as hers or mine. 

I am not jealous. On the contrary, I join her in her performance.

I run a hand up and down one side of her, from waist to mid-thigh, stopping to slap her buttock lightly so that it jiggles.

The noise my hand makes against her skin and flesh is obscene. So is the muffled grunt from the pillow embankment. So I do it again. And again.

I pull off her breast with wet pop, then immediately seize her buttocks with two hands, gripping with such sudden violence that her whimper at the loss of my mouth on her teat becomes an open-mouthed gasp of surprise.

“Oh, John,” she moans as the pads of my fingers sink into her flesh.

A moan escapes from the pillows as well. Of this, I am not surprised in the least.

Holmes loves Mary’s arse.

On one of the few occasions that I’ve ever known him to be truly inebriated, he confessed that he fantasised about buggering her senseless over the back of his armchair in the rooms in Baker Street. And I confess that the imagine haunted me for the better part of the following day. That evening, Mary, demonstrating her own superior powers of observation once again, cheekily asked me from across the dinner table,

“And what interesting tidbit of knowledge did Mister Holmes impart today?”

I could barely speak for shoveling the remains of the meal into my mouth and then dragging my bemused wife by the hand to the bedroom.

With only the most essential alterations to our clothing, I fucked her against the bedroom wall. Then I fell the floor, crawled beneath her skirts, and worshipped her, from cunt to arse, until her buckling knees threatened to give way. Then I stripped us both of all our clothing, threw her onto the bed, this very bed, and mounted her from behind, letting loose a number of coarse vulgarities about women’s (and men’s) hindquarters from my army days as I thrust.

I was still panting when she flipped onto her back and laughed. “Keep your secrets, you naughty boys, if that’s the result.”

I confess that her words, then, and now in their recollection, made me blush.

But it was two words, in a deep growl, that brought me back to our current tableau.

“Mrs. Watson.”

* * *

“Mister Holmes,” Mary replies and turns in my arms, draping herself along the front of me.

She writhes beautifully, touching herself and moaning softly, with eyes closed.

I bend to kiss her neck.

“You are gorgeous, my dear,” I whisper in her ear.

My hands join hers at her breasts and we share in her fondling.

After a quick peck on my lips, however, she digs her heels into the bed, lifts her hips, spreads her knees, reaches down, and opens her folds with two fingers.

“Mister Holmes, your services are required,” she calls.

Curiously, monikers do not change behind closed doors. It is always Mister Holmes with her and Holmes with me, interspersed with causal terms of endearment employed at poignant, or sometimes heated, moments.

At her invitation, he springs.

“By all means, Mrs. Watson.”

The sight of one’s nude wife eliciting the sexual favours of another would be the beginning of many a man’s journey to the gallows or the asylum, but it only makes me rock hard to see Holmes settle himself between Mary’s thighs. He places her legs over his shoulders and lowers his mouth to her core, pausing only to announce,

“You are quite serviced already, Mrs. Watson.”

I smile. Even here, he cannot resist a deduction. And my Mary, my beautiful, strong, lovely and loving Mary, will never be cowed, not even by a Great Mind.

“Two gentlemen called earlier,” she retorts. “They were quite thorough.”

Holmes snorts, then bows his head.

“Oh, John!” she cries a moment later. I try to still her upper body, and Holmes her lower, as she thrashes. She will not last long. This is her second ravishing of the night. The teasing has been prolonged and Holmes, I know, is especially adroit with his tongue. I shift so that I can more easily cover her mouth with my own, that she might have two sets of lips adoring her when she comes to crisis.

Which she does, quickly, but nonetheless beautifully.

* * *

“I would have John taste my pleasure as well,” she says, looking over her shoulder as she rolls to a seated position on the bed, her legs tucked under her.

Who could deny such a wanton request?

Not I.

And not Holmes.

“Certainly, madam,” he responds. “I’m given to understand moustache rides are the height of fashion these days.”

* * *

Pillows are reconfigured. The arrangement, although pleasing for both of Mary and I, is so that Holmes may worship Mary’s buttocks, petting, massaging, biting, without our direct attention on the matter. As far as I am aware, he has never breached her in that manner, nor has she requested it, but, like any lovers, we are sensitive to and indulging of each other’s predilections and privacies.

By the time Holmes is satisfied, however, Mary has come twice more, smaller, and perhaps sweeter flutters about my lips.

She sighs and collapses onto the bed.

“And now, madam?” Holmes asks.

My neglected cock makes its raging need known.

“It would please me greatly,” she replies, “to watch you gentlemen please each other.”

Holmes gives her a wry smile. “A preference for sequence or position?”

“I think my husband’s unflagging devotion and patience should be rewarded, don’t you, Mister Holmes? Perhaps by _observing_ ,” she draws the word out, then pauses for a smirk, “his cock disappear between your lips.”

I nearly spend myself in my hand.

“Holmes.” The word is a plea.

Then his mouth is on me as it was on Mary, and my release is building just as quickly as hers. I am so ready there is hardly time to savour the sight of that my wicked wife described, hardly stamina to relish the expert skill of his tongue teasing my slit while his slicked fist pumps my shaft.

I am too far gone.

Holmes must sense my condition, for he swallows me deep.

And it is only now that I realise that while one of his hands is fondling my bollocks, the other is clasped sweetly in mine upon the bed. How long we have been linked thusly, I cannot say—further proof that I am not the first, nor the second, most observant person in the room—but I am overwhelmed, utterly charmed, and falling, falling, falling…

I stare at our intertwined fingers, straining for coherent thought, wishing with every fibre of my being to say something, to tell him, to tell her, to tell them both.

To declare. To confess.

Too late.

A pair of jerky taps to the back of his head alert him to what should be bloody well apparent.

“FUCK!” I cry. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

* * *

 Awash with relief and pleasure, my affection flows unhindered and uninhibited.

“Holmes, Holmes, Holmes.”

I pepper his face and chin and neck with wet kisses like the loyal and stalwart companion animal that I am. The metaphor is not lost on him. Nothing is ever lost on Sherlock Holmes.

“Down, boy,” he whispers, chuckling.

We tussle, making a thorough mess of the bed save the sliver that Mary has claimed as her own.

I finally pin him on his back.

Our eyes lock.

I say ‘Holmes’ and lean down to brush his lips with mine. His reply when I pull away is ‘Watson.’

We know what we mean.

Kissing Holmes is different from kissing Mary, of course. He is angles and coarseness, stubble and tobacco stench.

But still glorious.

We kiss again and again.

“Holmes.”

“Watson.”

“Holmes.”

“ _Watson_.”

I get on with it as ordered.

And when his body is wet with kisses, when he has been scented and nuzzled and licked like the benevolent master that he is, when his prick has spent inside my mouth, when he is limp and sated once more, I feel a hand brush damp hair from my forehead.

I look up and say,

“You are gorgeous.”

Holmes looks down. His eyes are the soft grey of hatchling feathers.

“As are you,” he whispers.

Then we both look at Mary’s sleeping form.

“Sweet dreams, my dear,” I say, to which Holmes replies,

“Mrs. Watson will be cross if we don’t restore the bed to its proper order.”

* * *

Mary is asleep in my arms.

Holmes and I gaze at her in silence until he whispers, “What will you call this one?”

“The Adventure of the Tired Captain?” I muse.                               

He smiles a half-smile and shakes his head. Then he reaches out to stroke Mary’s hair.

“Our powers, our desires, our food, Watson, are all really necessary for our existence in the first instance. But a rose is an extra. Its smell and colour are an embellishment to life, not a condition of it. It is only goodness which gives extras. We have much to hope for from the flowers; they are our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence.”

“Holmes, I’ve never heard you wax so keenly, poetically, or philosophically about natural objects.” The statement is part tease, but part truth as well.

“I would be obliged if you would include my words in your narrative about the Phelps problem. As a tribute to our rose.”

“I will do so. Gladly.”

He gives her head one last caress, her shoulder one last kiss, then nods and slips out of the bed to dress. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
